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Tom Hundley 

THE DBUMMEB BOY 

Or, A Secret that Gen. Grant Kept 




-M 



Tom Hundley 

The Drummer Boy 

. OR . 

A Secret that General Grant Kept 



A DRAMA OF 1861 



By Mrs. Annie Hundley 



PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 
Oakland, California 

1899 



•M 



OPIES RECEIVED, 



OlhQ» of tl,, ' 1, „ 

Btli4-1899 • ^-'^ 



Copyright by Mrs. Annie Hundley 

. 1899. 

All Rights Reserved 



Tom Hundley 

THE DRUMMER BOY 



A Secret that General Grant Kept 



A DRAMA OF 1861 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Gen. U. S. Grant. 

Officers and soldiers, 

Mr. Jeremiah Hundley, father to Annie 

Hundley (Tom Hundley). 
Tom Hundley. 
Archibald, James, Richard, and Jesse, 

brothers to Tom. 
Two go off with Southern soldiers. 
Joe Dalton, an old friend of Mr. Hundley. 
Lieut. Devoe, a friend of Tom Hundley. 
Rose Thorn, a young lady. 
Mrs. Myers, a friend. 
Boat hands, citizens, etc. 



2 TOM HUNDLEY, 

ACT I. 

Scene i. 

(In Kentucky.) Old Kentucky home; 
farm-house; stable and barn. 

Soldiers on the march; they burn the 
Hundley homestead and take Mr. Hundley 
and Tom with them. 

(A room in a country house.) 

An old-fashioned house and furniture with 
plenty and comfort, but all in confusion. A 
large old-time fire-place; a bed of coals, over 
which hangs an iron pot suspended from a 
hook; something savory cooking for dinner; 
a bright-eyed girl plays with her kitten, toss- 
ing a ball of yarn, while she laughs with glee. 

An old settee; a corner cupboard, with old- 
fashioned china, some of which came down 
as treasured relics from ancestors, who fought 
and bled at Valley Forge; guns on racks sup- 
ported by deers' antlers; home-made carpets; 
fine buffalo and Angora goat-skins covering 
the floor; bees hunmied and sipped their 
nectar from the honeysuckle and wild clem- 
atis that crept over the porch, making a very 
attractive picture of country life. Suddenly 
a shadow falls oii the simlight that streams in 
the open door; the girl looks up to see her 
lather; a strange feeling steals over her and 



IHE DRUMMER BOY. 3 

checks the merry laugh that bubbles to her 
lips, as she notes the wild, haggard look in 
his face; lie locked years older than when he 
parted from her that morning to look after 
his stock, 

Mr. Hundley. — Ah, Annie, my little 
motherless girl, I have great news for you; 
the war is brought to our very door; this 
morning when I kissed you good-by you 
were asleep in yovir little bed, the smile of in- 
nocence on your sweet lips. 1 foamd my 
barn and storehouses broken open, my goods 
all gone, my stock driven off, and my farm 
hands gone. In fact, dear child, we are here 
alone with nothing left but this house and the 
contents of that pot that hangs in the tire- 
place. 

(Mr. Hundley walks to the door and looks 
out.) Exclaims: '"They come, they come; 
the soldiers will soon be here; I see the bay- 
onets gleam as they rise that hill by the old 
mill. 

(Annie clings closer to her father, cries and 
begs him not to leave her.) 

Annie. — O papa! papa! you will not go 
with the soldiers and leave your little girl; 
your own little girl! 

Mr. Hundley. — No, no, my precious child. 
When your brothers left us to join the South- 



4 TOM HUNDLEY, 

ern Army, your mother grieved night and 
day, until, at last, she sickened and died of a 
broken heart. I promised her on her deatli- 
bed never to leave you with strangers, but 
always to keep you with me. I will keep my 
word with her. You shall go with me or we 
will die together. Annie, before they shall 
separate us 1 will send your pure spirit to 
join your sainted mother and I will follow. 
Is it not better than to leave you alone — for 
what? (He puts his hand on Annie's head, 
looks fervently up, saying) O my God, help 
me now; I can not leave my child with no 
one to care for her! Is it not better to send 
her spirit pure and unsullied to that rest in 
heaven than to leave her to a fate too terrible 
to think of? Am I going mad? Annie, tell 
me, child, are you willing to die? 

(He walks the floor showing great excite- 
ment.) 

Annie. — Papa, I would rather die than 
have you leave me. 

Mr. Hundley. — Quick, quick, Annie, a 
thought comes to me; run and change your 
clothes; put on your brother's coat and pants, 
and remember you are, after this, my little 
bov, "Tom Hundley." 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 5 

Scene 2. 

(Soldiers are seen approaching. Annie ap- 
pears in boy's attire.) 

Mr. Hundley. — Bravo! yon make a fine 
1)oy, Tom; do not forget to play your part; 
always remember that you are "Tom Hund- 
ley," papa's little boy, and we will go to- 
gether. 

(Soldiers approach. Mr. Hundley takes 
Tom by the hand, goes to meet them.) 

A Soldier. — Hello! Who is here? Any 
more of you? 

Mr. Hundley. — Only my little boy, Tom, 
and I. 

Soldier. — What flag do you fly? 

Mr. Hundley. — Union flag. 

Soldier. — That suits us well; we want just 
such men as you are in our ranks. (Eyes the 
tall, well-built man, who stands resolute and 
fearless before them, for Mr. Hundley feared 
nothing but leaving his little girl.) 

(Soldier looks at Tom, who shyly clings to 
his father's hand.) 

Soldier. — What have you here? 

Mr. Hundley. — My little niotherless boy. 

(Tom shrinks from the soldier — clings 
closer to his father.) 

Soldier. — Come, we must be off; there is 



6 TOM HUNDLEY, 

nothing to invite a stay in these regions; the 
bushes are full of Johnnies, and we are likely 
to have trouble. Come along, no time to 
lose. 

Mr. Hundley (resolutely). — I am willing to 
accompany you if you will permit me to take 
my boy. If you do not take Tom and I 
alive, you will not care to take us dead. 
(Stoops over and whispers to Tom.) 

Tom. — I am not afraid, papa; we'll live or 
die together. 

(Soldier hears Tom's remark, suspiciously.) 

Soldier.— What's that? What's that? 

Mr. Hundley. — It means simply this: that 
if you want to fill your ranks, you can have 
twO', by taking Tom and his father along; if 
you do not take Tom, you can walk over our 
dead bodies; but that will not be to your 
credit. 

Soldier. — What will we do with the 
youngster? How old is he? 

Mr. Hundley. — He is just ten years old. 

Soldier. — He looks like a little girl, small 
of his age; if he was a little older we would 
make a drummer of him; our drummer boy 
was killed in a skirmish, and we are in need 
of one. 

Tom. — Never mind mv size; I can drum as 



THE DRUMMER BOY. % 

well as a large boy. I can climb hills and 
walk all day. 

(Soldier looks admiringly at the pretty 
child, his large, dark eyes all aglow, his wavy 
hair in curly rings around a brow that de- 
notes inteUigence beyond his years.) 

Soldier. — Well, well, we can't talk here all 
day. Come along, come along, Tom, we'll 
see how you can drum. 

(Drum lies on the ground, the kitten plays 
with the tassel.) 

Tom (joyfully).— We'll go, papa, we'll go. 
(Stoops and picks the kitten up.) Can I take 
kitty with me, papa? 

Mr. Hundley. — No, my child, you will play 
with guns now. 

Tom.— I'll beat the drum. (Picks up the 
drum, and, to the surprise of the soldiers, 
beats like an old drummer.) 

Soldiers.- That is fine. Tom "shall be our 
drummer boy. Where did you learn to 
drum? 

Tom (simply).— My brothers taught me; 
i drummed for them when we played soldier. 

(Tom takes his father's hand, and they 
march off.) 



8 TOM HUNDLEY, 

ACT II. 
Scene i. 

(Camp in woods near Nashville.) It is two 
years since Tom Hundley left home to join 
the soldiers. A smouldering- camp-fire; sol- 
diers are seen lounj^ing and sitting around. 

Near the fire on a fallen log sits Tom; his 
drum is on the ground by his side; his fa- 
tigue cap lies on the drum. 

These years have developed Tom into 
rather a delicate-looking but handsome boy; 
his curly brown hair, fine dark eyes, full of in- 
telligence, attract attention at once; there is 
something about Tom that wins all hearts; 
he reclines as if tired — a crimson sash around 
his shoulders, his drum by his side, a tin cup 
in his hand — making a pretty picture. 

(Two young officers, sitting at a short dis- 
tance, are looking at Tom.) 

Sergeant (who has recently joined the com- 
mand.) — Say, lieutenant, where did that little 
chap come from? He looks like he came out 
of a picture-book; and yet, the men tell me, 
he has been in a great many hard-fought bat- 
tles, and is not afraid of anything. 

Lieutenant Devoe. — Yes, that boy has a 
history- that old soldiers might envy. You 
see that tall, fine-looking fellow talking to 



THE DRUMMER BO/. 9 

Colonel C? That is the boy's father. Their 
history is one of interest: it is one illustrating 
this civil war. The father, it seems, is a 
northern man. He fell in love with a south- 
ern heiress, a beautiful and lovely lady. He 
made his home in Kentucky, where she had 
a large property. In the breaking out of the 
war, two of her sons went ofif without making 
their intentions known and joined the south- 
ern amiy. The mother died. The other 
boys were away somewhere, when, first one 
side and then the other, raided that part of 
the country. One day the Hundley home 
was invaded. Tom with his father joined a 
raiding party who happened to pass by his 
farm. I was one of the party. I was quite 
young myself, only eighteen. 

Fear seems to be left out of Tom's compo- 
sition; he is afraid of only one thing, that is, 
losing sight of his father for one minute. I 
never saw anything like their devotion. 

I will tell you about their leaving home, 
and those lirst days over the hills, rocks, and 
mud. Tom trudged silently by the side of 
his father. Not one word could you get out 
of the youngster but "Yes sir" and "No sir." 
Tom is no cry-baby. 1 have only seen him 
in tears once: that was just as we reached the 
top of the hill by the old mill, as we retraced 



10 TOM HUNDLE V, 

our steps. We went a little out of our way 
to get this man, knowing that he was a Union 
sympathizer and could give us much needed 
information about that part of the country. 
We found that his place had been raided the 
day before and completely broken up. 

The soldiers made a habit of burning the 
barns when they left. Some stayed behind, 
setting fire to some rubbish. Soon the whole 
place was in a blaze. 

As we reached the hill-top Tom turned to 
take a last look; with a piercing scream he 
threw himself into his father's arms and hid 
his face. 

Against the evening sky (it was almost 
night) a lurid flame shot up, the roof fell in 
that sheltered them all — where Tom had 
spent so many happy hours with father, 
mother, and brothers. This meant heart- 
sickening desolation. 

Tom sobbed and rocked his little body in 
an agony of grief. Suddenly lifting his head 
from his father's shoulder, with brimming 
eyes, he looked over the landscape; twilight 
gathered, night was closing in fast. That 
peculiar haze that follows a southern sunset, 
rested over all, giving a soft beauty and feeling 
of repose that was in striking contrast to the 
lurid glare of the fire and the black, dense 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 11 

smoke that covered the ruins as if with a 
mourning veil. 

Veterans who had faced death on many a 
battle-field brushed away a tear in sympathy 
with little Tom, who stood with a last linger- 
ing look at the old familiar scene, his beauti- 
ful dark eyes sufifused with tears — an ex- 
pression of mute agony I will never forget. 
His childhood seemed to pass out of his life 
forever. Appealingly he turned to his father, 
saying, ''Come, papa, it is all over." 

Mr. Hundley stood by during this trying 
ordeal, pale and calm; he dared not think of 
the happy past. It was like a dream, but 
thoughts of the little boy by his side aroused 
him. ''Come, Tom," said he, taking Tom by 
the hand, "we must move on. We have each 
other, Tom. You must be a true little soldier. 
Walk on; we must be away from here many 
miles before to-morrow, or we will go up in 
smoke, too." 

On we marched, two days and nights with- 
out food or rest, only halting a few minutes 
at a time, for a brief respite, then on again. 
To be without food was not so bad, if we had 
water, but not one drop until the morning of 
the third day. It had been raining; we lay 
close to the ground and drank, as well as we 
could, the water out of the tracks made by 



12 TOM HUNDLEY, 

some horses that had just gone before. Even 
this created a sense of uneasiness, for the indi- 
cations were that some bush-whackers might 
lay in ambush — a supposition that was cor- 
rect. We had a benefit the fourth day; the 
evening of the third day our httle famished 
squad of soldiers met a provision wagon. 
We obtained enough for a meal, a little 
bacon, hard-tack, and coffee. 

Little Tom gave expression to our feelings. 
I heard him say, "Papa, this tastes better 
than honey and buttermilk biscuits." I 
looked at the youngster, amazed. You 
would never believe it possible that he could 
survive such a forced march over rough 
mountain roads, without rest, food, or water. 

The men were so impressed that they 
ceased to grumble, ashamed to own that 
Tom was a better soldier than they were; he 
actually seemed in better spirits and looked 
fresher than he did the first day. 

(Here comes a sudden interruption to the 
gossip of the young officers. They had not 
noticed that the sun's rays were fast sinking 
behind the horizon, and that a superior of^cer 
stood partly concealed by the boughs of a 
tree, listening to their conversation. Clear 
and sweet rang the notes of a bugle, calling 
the attention of the men to the fact that thev 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 13 

had still a bugler, although they were in great 
perplexity to get a substitute for the one left 
rlead on the ground where the last battle had 
been fought.) 

(Note. — These bugle notes were vocal.) 

Scene 2. 

(Woods.) General Grant is seen; his horse 
is hitched to the bough of a tree. As the 
General approaches them, the young officers 
spring to their feet, saluting him. 

Gen. Grant. — Who is that * boy that is 
drummer, bugler, and soldier, yet looks like 
a modest young girl in boy's clothes? 

Lieut. Devoe. — I have often thought he 
looked like a girl, and yet his name is Tom 
Hundley; that tall, handsome man talking to 
his colonel is the boy's father. The little chap 
IS like his father's shadow. 

Gen. Grant. — What was that about his 
marching without food or water for two days? 
Did you say there was a fight, too? 

Lieut. Devoe. — The fourth day we fell in 
with bush-whackers. Whiz, bang — the shot 
flew around our heads like hail — a surprise, 
as we were in a bit of wood. The smoke 
from the guns blinded us, we were in such 
close range. It was short, but severe. After 
the fight was over, many of our men lay 



14 TOM HUNDLEY, 

around dead and dying. We hastily dug a 
trench, buried our dead, and prepared to 
move on. We missed our Httle drummer 
boy. His father was wild; he thought his boy 
was dead. We soon found him, sitting as if 
dazed, with a dead man's head in his lap, still 
holding the fiask to his lips. 

''Torn, Tom," we called, and looking up, 
Tom laid the dead man's head gently down, 
saying, "He groaned and begged for water, 
and I ran to get him some. He choked and 
died." 

"Tom, were you not afraid of the bullets," 
I asked. "Yes, a little," Tom answered, "but 
I could not see papa for the smoke. I was 
more afraid of losing him. The poor man 
kept begging for water. I had my canteen 
full and I wanted to give him some. When 
I looked around I could not see papa. I was 
afraid I would be left alone with the dead 
man." 

Gen. Grant (his eyes suspiciously moist). — 
Bring the boy to me. 1 must speak to him. 

(Tom Hundley hastily catches up his drum, 
swings it across his shoulder, surprised and 
delighted to at last talk face to face with tlie 
great general under whose orders he had 
marched so often.) 
• (Torn approaches and salutes.) 



THE DkUMMER BOY. 15 

Gen. Grant. — You are the boy drummer, 
Inigler, and soldier. Well, you are a brave 
lad and deserve promotion. I did not have 
an idea that we had so young a soldier in our 
service, but you can remember that General 
Grant is proud of you; you should enlist at 
once. You shall not be forgotten. Your 
father will be proud of you some day, my lit- 
tle hero; your country will be proud of you, 
and your General will not forget you. When 
this war is over, come to see General Grant, 
give that bugle call, and he will need no other 
reminder. 

(A tall man stepped forward, saluted the 
General, and asked for a few words in 
private.) 

(General Grant easily recognized him as 
Tom's father; the likeness was striking.) 

(The lieutenant and Tom walked away, 
leaving Mr. Hundley in earnest conversation 
with General Grant.) 

Scene 3. 

(General Grant and Mr. Hundley. They 
walk in the edge of the woods.) 

Gen. Grant. — Well. 1 must go; I will not 
forget to make a note of this; it seems a hard 
case. You say she has fought her way for 
two years, walking over the battle-fields with 



16 TOM HUNDLEY, 

her little feet red with blood, beating the 
drum without fear. It would now be cruel 
to part you. It would break her heart to 
take her away. I'll consider the matter. In 
the meantime I will order that you are not 
separated, and General Grant will keep your 
secret. It is very remarkable. There must 
be some recognition of your faithful service, 
and also a suitable reward for your little '']o2.\\ 
of Arc." I now understand why she cast her 
eyes down and looked so abashed when I 
suggested that she enlist in the regulars. 
But she will some day be remembered for her 
heroism. Seek me out when this war is 
ended. Honorable mention shall be made^ 
and your little girl provided for. You have 
the word of General Grant. (Mounting his 
horse he rode away.) 



ACT III. 
Scene i. 
(Indiana.) After the war. Soldiers have 
disbanded. Mr. Hundley and Tom are 
found on a canal boat owned by an old friend 
of Mr. Hundley's, Joe Dalton, who has in- 
vited them to stay with him until they can 
find a home. 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 17 

Toin Hundley has dropped his soldier 
clothes; appears as Miss Annie Hundley. 
She is now nearly thirteen, a lovely girl, with 
promise of a beautiful womanhood, not 
spoiled by her army experience, but rather 
more sedate than girls of her age. Her face 
is full of thought that gives her the appear- 
ance of a girl of sixteen, yet lights up with a 
smile that is very engaging. 

Annie is sitting on deck with her fathers 
friend, Joe Dalton, when a cry of "Fire" is 
heard. All is hurry, bustle, and confusion. 
There is a loud report, a crashing of timbers, 
cries and shouts. Annie feels a sudden 
shock, is thrown in the water, loses con- 
sciousness. 

Scene 2. 

Private residence. Annie Hundley is 
taken to a beautiful house surrounded by 
fine grounds, every appearance of wealth; she 
is cared for by kind friends, recovering from 
a long illness. She is at last out for a stroll 
in the grounds, finds a seat in an arbor over- 
grown with roses; a little tired, she pensively 
rests her head on a mossy rock and falls 
asleep; starting suddenly up she cries aloud, 
'*To arms! to arms!" then throwing her head 
back she makes the bugle notes, sweet and 



18 TOM HUNDLEY, 

clear. She shades her eyes with her hand 
and murmurs softly, "Was it a dream? I 
saw General Grant on a large chestnut horse; 
he dropped a sable plume; I picked it up, 
and — " she started with surprise, for, sitting 
close by, looking at her intently, she saw a 
young officer, whose face seemed strangely 
familiar. 

The young officer speaks. 

Officer. — Can this be Tom Hundley's sis- 
ter? I am Colonel Devoe. 1 knew a little 
drummer boy by that name when I was in 
camp near Nashville, during the civil war. 
Tell me, please, are you his sister? 

(Annie, blushing crimson, appeared em- 
barrassed, then, with one of her rare smiles, 
threw her head back, and again made those 
bugle notes; smiling at his puzzled look, 
she said) "Colonel Devoe, do^ you know me 
now?" 

Col. Devoe. — Can it be Tom Hundley? 
(Stammers in confusion) Were you really a 
.i:>irl ? 

(Annie hides her face in her hands. She 
knows now that she loves the brave young 
officer. She tries to hide the secret from 
him, for she does not yet know if her love is 
returned.) 

Col. Devoe. — Those friends who found you 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 19 

lying on the bank are my cousins, Annie. 
They found you after the explosion, stunned 
and almost dead. You were picked up by 
some boatmen who saw you as you were 
thrown in the water; you were carried up to 
the residence of my cousin, Mrs. St. Claire. 
I came on a visit, little dreaming that I would 
find "Tom Hundley." 

Annie (blushing). — Do not call me "Tom," 
or ever allude to my army experience, please, 
Colonel Devoe. Your friends could not un- 
derstand it as you do. I am afraid they 
would think me bold. I do so dread the 
criticism of society people. Your cousins 
have been so kind, in fact, they have made a 
perfect pet of me; I have been so happy. 
You will see what a difference it will make 
as soon as they find I have been thrown on 
the mercy of the world — a poor, motherless 
child. The coldness will grow over them; I 
can't tell how, but I know I will feel it; and 
I shrink from the trying ordeal of meeting 
with polite snubs and cold looks from my 
sister-women more than I did from all the 
bullets that whizzed around my head when I 
Vv'as a little drummer boy in the army. 

Col. Devoe. — Annie, my heart aches to 
think that so soon you begin to feel the cold- 
ness of the world. Sit down on this mossv 



20 TOM HUNDLEY, 

rock, and let me talk with you and look at 
you, my little comrade! Tom, my dear lit- 
tle friend; how often I have thought of you! 
I will tell you some time. 

(They sit down, Lieutenant Devoe holding 
Annie's hand.) 

Lieut. Devoe. — Annie, can it be possible 
that this tall, beautiful young lady is really 
the pretty, curly-headed little drummer boy 
who ran to keep up with his father, beating 
the drum in the thickest of the fight; and 
when the battle ended, bending over the 
wounded and dying, with the face of a little 
angel, and hands that were ever ready to give 
water from the little canteen that hung from 
his shoulder, full of crystal drops that meant 
more to the poor wounded soldier than all 
the hoarded treasures of the Rothschilds? 
Annie, you are the bravest girl I ever saw. 
Did you realize your danger when in the 
thickest of the fight, with the bullets flying 
like hail around you, the smoke of battle al- 
most hiding you from sight, and only the 
sound of your drum to guide us on to 4;he 
front? 

Little fairy! think for a moment and tell 
me, is your life charmed? The men grew 
superstitious and followed vour drum as rev- 
erentlv as thev did the colors. 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 21 

(Colonel Devoe, his eyes looking into An- 
nie's with an expression that filled her with 
happiness, and his words giving her the as- 
surance that she was not forgotten.) 

(At last Annie found voice to answer him.) 

Annie. — Colonel Devoe, allow me to ex- 
press my appreciation of all your kindness to 
me in those weary marches. How many acts 
of thoughtful care relieved me of many hard- 
ships! After all these years do you indeed 
remember me? 

Col. Devoe. — Do 1 remember you, little 
one? Does one forget the sunshine and 
Mowers that brighten one's life? I am glad 
to find you here, Annie, at Belleview. We 
will take rides and walks along the river 
bank. I will tell you a story that will let you 
see how well I remember you. You are 
quite young, Annie, to speak of "years gone 
by." I suppose the exciting scenes of battle- 
fields and the very unusual experiences you 
have had, make a full-grown woman of you, 
when in reality you are only a child in years. 

Annie. — I fear I will be missed. I must 
return to the house and bid my friends adieu; 
my father is ill, and needs my care. I must 
now say good-by imtil we meet again. 

(Exit Annie.) 



22 TOM HUNDLE V, 

Scene 3. 

(House at Eelleview. Front door.) 

Annie rettirns to the house; meets Mrs. 
St. Claire at the door. 

Annie. — How can I tliank you, kind friend, 
for all you have done! I owe to you more 
of happiness than I have had since I was a 
child in my old Kentucky home. I will take 
it with me in memory like a sweet dream; 
but this life is not for me. Some day, if I have 
the pleasure of meeting you again, I will tell 
you a story; how a little girl was left mother- 
less, and had to follow the fortunes of her 
father. But, alas! the world applauds the 
brave, weaves laurel wreaths for her heroes, 
but too often slights and blights the lives of 
those who are just as deserving. Is not the 
heart's blood of one poor private just as red 
as that of a great general? 

Mrs. St. Claire. — Annie, I am amazed. Is 
this my gentle little friend? To what do you 
allude? You talk as if you had a world of 
experience; the woman's soul speaks from 
your flashing eyes. Your words woulc] fit 
one of riper years. 

Annie. — Oh! I could tell you things would 
till a volume. I tremble and shrink from the 
cold, hard criticism of the world as I would 
not from open cannon's mouth! But I must 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 

say g-ood-by. Your loving words and gen- 
tle care will never be forgotten. I must seek 
out my friends, and bid you a fond adieu. 

Scene 4. 

(Drawing-room; guests seated.) They enter 
the house. Annie starts, with a feeling that 
causes her heart to beat faster, when she sees 
among the guests, Colonel Devoe. He is 
sitting by the side of a beautiful, proud- 
looking girl, who is fashionably dressed and 
evidently pleased to absorb his attention. 

Mrs. St. Claire. — Annie, let me introduce 
a friend, Miss Rose Thorn; Miss Hundley, 
Miss Thorn. 

(This was all, and yet it seems years of 
agony to Annie. She could not define her 
feelings. Inhere seemed suddenly to rise a 
great barrier between her and all that meant 
happiness. This assured ease and grace of 
manner, the elegant dress, luxurious sur- 
roundings of wealth and aristocracy, were in 
painful contrast to the canal boat, the rough 
cabin, the open air, the life in camp, where a 
coarse blanket was a luxury; and yet was not 
her heart's blood as red as theirs? Did they 
do more for their country than she. Did 
they deserve the applause of the world more 
than she? These thoughts passed like 



24 TOM BUNDLE Y, 

lightning through her brain; she felt dizzy 
and sick and longed to get out into the open 
air; even a canal boat wouM have been a re- 
lief.) 

Col. Devoe. — Miss Hundley, we were talk- 
ing of a drive over to the fort. I expect to 
meet some brother of^cers, and we will have 
a dance and return by moonlight. You will 
go, of course? 

Annie. — No, I must decline, for I leave in 
a few minutes. I have summons to meet my 
father, who has just found out where I am. 
He is sick and can not come to me. I bid 
you all adieu. 

(Exit Annie.) 

Scene 5. 

(A poor room in the suburbs of the city. A 
sick m.an lies on a bed, his head bandaged. 
A young girl is seated near.) 

Mr. Hundley. — Annie, I am very sick; I 
must tell you something I have on my mind. 
You remember that I have nothing to expect 
from your mother's estate, such are the for- 
tunes of war. What is to become of you? 
My brave little girl. I can not bear to think 
of leaving you alone. 

Annie (sobbing as if her heart would 
break). — Papa, papa, do not talk like this; 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 25 

r 

you will live; I will get work and help you. 

papa! this world is so cruel, I wish we 
were in camp again, you with your gun, and 

1 with my drum and hard-tack. 

Mr. Hundley. — No, Annie, you were a 
child then; now you are a woman. Be brave; 
do your duty, little one; be not afraid. God 
will take care of you. Annie, there is some- 
thing I must tell you. The world is like a 
great battle-field; there must be a controlling 
force; there is plotting and tactic that require 
a great deal of engineering. A little drum- 
mer boy is good in his place, but he could not 
meet the contending forces alone. You are 
young, Annie, very young. You have 
neither home nor mother's care. I think it is 
better that you be provided for before I join 
the soldiers on the other side. Annie, Joe 
Dalton will care for you ; he is much older than 
you are, but he is all the better able to take 
care of you. Joe wants you for his wife. An- 
nie, what is the matter? (For Annie was 
crying as if her heart would break.) 

Annie. — Never mind, papa, you are sick. 
I will nurse you so well that you will soon be 
well again. Let Joe Dalton rest, I want only 
you. 

Mr. Hundley. — 1 am very sick, Annie, the 



26 TOM HUNDLEY, 

sickness of death, I am afraid. Joe Dalton 
can make you a home, remember. 



ACT IV. 
Scene i. 



(A grove of trees.) A girl sits on a fallen 
log, her hat is in her lap, as she idly twines 
flowers around the brim. The smile that 
brightened her face and dispelled the idea of 
sadness has faded into a wistful, far-off look, 
that is touching in one so young. Annie 
does not observe a young man standing a 
short distance off, closely observing her every 
movement. Restlessly, she pats her feet, and 
sings a little song that she learned in camp 
life. vSuddenly throwing her hat away, she 
walks rapidly up and down the little path, 
clasping and unclasping her hands. Throw- 
ing herself down in a passion of tears, she cries 
aloud. 

Annie. — Oh, this cruel world! What is 
there here for me? — Heartache! Yes, I 
could beat my drum to drown the groans that 
would burst from my lips; to still the cry of 
})ain, worse, far worse, than gaping wounds 
by shot and shell. These thrusts, sent by 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 27 

friends, not foes, these heart-cuts, make 
greater havoc. My father! my father! did 
you but know the fate that you consigned 
me to, your spirit would come back to com- 
fort me! But yes, 1 promised you, and I'll 
be brave and true. 

(She picks up her hat to go, wipes her 
tears away, throws her head, back with a 
laugh that sounds like the echo of heart- 
strings breaking; loud and sweet ring the bu- 
gle notes.) 

(A shado'W crosses her path. She looks 
up to see Colonel Devoe standing before her. 
He stretches out his arms. In tender ac- 
cents he calls) "Annie, Annie, my own love! 
I will try to keep you from every breath of 
harm. Smile once again! That sweet little 
spirit that hovered over our weary marches, 
and kept us always hoping, must not fail 
now. I am sellish, Annie; I want you away 
from all the world, to preside over my des- 
tiny, like the good fairy you are. Tom, my 
little comrade! to be remembered when tell- 
ing our stories around our own fireside, but 
to the rest of the world will be Annie Devoe 
if — " (But Annie has fainted. He catches 
her, kisses her hands and face, runs to the 
spring that falls out of the rocks near by, gets 
water, returns to find her reviving, gives her 



28 TOM HUNDL E \ \ 

a drink. She sips the water from a cup that 
he takes out of his pocket; then, deadly pale, 
with a face full of a great sorrow, she looks at 
him, one long, intense, soulful look, that 
means a last farewell. She speaks.) 

Annie. — Colonel Devoe, when I left you 
that fateful day at Belleview, I felt a world of 
conflicting emotion. I knew my heart for 
the first time, when I saw you seated by 
Miss Thorn, she, rich and beautiful; I, only 
"Tom, the drummer boy." Do not call it 
jealousy; it is fate. A great gulf seemed to 
spring up between us. I little dreamed that 
you cared for me other than a friend. Listen 
patiently until I tell you all. My father was 
ill — he who gave me all the care and lo've of 
father and mother both for so many years of 
trial and hardship. You know better than I 
can tell you. I saw him ill and suffering, his 
health completely broken from the long, hard 
marches, to say nothing of the hard-fought 
battles, the double care he had had tO' keep 
me with him. To gratify his least wish 1 
would give my life. He agonized at the 
thought of leaving me homeless — alone. I 
made up my mind to do as he wished. I felt 
that my love for you was only another pain. 
I did not for an instant dream that you loved 
me! (Claspmg her hands in despair.) Oh, 



yj 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 29 

what have T lost! What have I done! To 
please my father, — I — 1 — I — ni-arried Joe 
Dal ton. 

(Pale as death, Colonel Devoe stood silent; 
then with a great effort said) ''Annie, there 
is no blame. Had I but known how you 
were placed! 1 have been searching for you 
everywhere. Only by accident to-day did I 
find you, only to lose you again. Do your 
duty, Annie, as you always have done. Some- 
time, sometime, we'll meet in heaven." 

Scene 2. 
A small room furnished poorly. A baby 
cries in its cradle. A rough, ill-favored man, 
brutalized with drink, walks the floor mutter- 
ing curses. Suddenly the door opens. A 
young girl enters, thinly clad, icicles clinging 
to her garments, a shawl thrown over her 
head, a dash of snow on shawl, and stray curls 
that are blown by the winter's blast, escaped 
from their fastenings, falling about her face, 
and giving a weird beauty to the features that, 
although pinched with cold, are young and 
handsome. The great blue-gray eyes look 
out from their silken lashes with mingled 
fear and hatred at the man she calls her hus- 
band. Piteously, she turns to the cradle and 
takes the infant in her arms, caressing him in 



30 rOM HUNDLEY, 

tender accents, while the snowflakes drop 
from her curls on her baby boy's face. 
Springing like a tiger from his lair on a poor 
little fawn that has strayed in his way, he 
grasps her roughly by the arms. 

Joe Dalton (with a muttered curse). — An- 
nie, did you bring the liquor (shaking her 
roughly)? Answer, or, by heaven, I'll cut 
your throat, and make an end of the brat, 
too! He's been crying here this hour. 

Annie (looking him firmly in the face). — 
Joe, you are no man to speak and act like 
this. See my frozen dress. It sleets and 
snows. I could not get my wages for the 
work I did. The men at the tavern were sur- 
prised that you would send me out in this 
cold, cold sleet for whisky; and — 

(With a fierce yell, Joe Dalton caught the 
baby, threw it across the room, then deliber- 
ately sat down with a chuckle, razor in hand, 
to sharpen the edge.) 

Annie. — Joe! Joe! is this the way you fulfil 
the promise made my father on his death- 
bed? Did you not say you would care for 
me tenderly all the days of your life? O my 
God! Am I going mad? Can I trust my 
senses? Joe Dalton, you have murder in 
A'our heart! Look at me now, and have some 
pity! T am only a child; I am not yet fifteen. 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 31 

Life is sweet, although you have made it so 
bitter to me that I would say, do your worst, 
put me out of my misery, but for my baby's 
sake. My boy! my darling baby boy! 
(With outstretched arms. Annie caught her 
boy from the floor, raining passionate kisses 
on his head and face.) 

(Joe Dalton, with a mad spring, caught 
her head, holding it back, the curls clutched 
tight in one hand, while with the other he 
raised aloft his razor, was in the act of 
bringing it swiftly across her throat, when a 
piercing scream from Annie attracted the 
attention of a policeman who was passing the 
door at that very moment. Rushing in, he 
struck the man's arm a heavy blow with his 
club, sending the razor flying across the 
room. Annie, with her baby clasped in her 
arms, fell fainting to the floor.) 

Pohceman. — Ho, ho, you are a pretty fel- 
low! I'll see if justice can be meted out to 
you. A cool night to cut your wife's throat 
in. Come along — come along. 

(Sullenly Joe Dalton submitted to be hand- 
cuffed and followed the officer out.) 

(Annie slowly regains consciousness. Lift- 
ing herself to her elbow, she gazes around be- 
wildered.) 

Annie. — Am T dreaming, or did Joe try to 



32 TOM HUNDLEY, 

kill me? Where am 1? Where am I? Oh, 
yes, here is baby! Now it all comes to me. 
(Slowly rising from the floor, she picks her 
baby up. Seating herself in a low rocker, 
she sings a little song. Then, laying him 
softly down, she walks up and down the floor.) 

Annie. — O papa, papa, come to me now! 
If 1 could only see you once again, 'twould 
ease this gnawing pain that eats my heart 
away, and 1 would take courage as of yore, 
when battles raged and gory plains were cov- 
ered with the slain; when sable night her 
mantle spread to cover o'er the dead. I'd 
cling to you, my father dear, and in your 
presence cast ofif fear; so come at once with- 
out delay, to cheer my now benighted way. 

(Dimly a shadow is outlined on the wall, 
growing plainer, until Annie sees a shadowed 
picture of her father. The picture remains a 
moment, then fades.) 

(Annie stands looking rapturously at the 
shadow-like image so softly outlined.) 

Annie. — My father! My father! 'Tis w^ell! 
'Tis w^ell! I'll comfort take, and courage, 
too! I'll go out into the world's great mart, 
and, like a sailor, use my chart. I'll find a 
harbor safe, and there I'll rest me from the 
fury of these storm-crest waves. I'll hie me 
to some sunny clime, where birdlets sing and 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 33 

ilowei's bloom. I'll leave these shadows and 
the gloom that haunts my pathway here. 

(Knocking is heard at the door. Police- 
man enters.) 

Policeman. — What! Ho! You must 
away; you dare not stay! Your life is in dan- 
ger! Not a minute lose! But take your boy 
and fly! If you but linger here too long, and 
jail bars break, then you may quake with 
fear; for soon or late, with fiendish hate, your 
life he'll take, with curses deep. In guilt so 
steeped that pity sleeps to wake no mcJre, 
this man will follow you from shore to shore! 
Then stay not here, but with your baby fly 
to some safe spot! There is no reason in this 
diunken sot. Your pleading is in vain. 'Tis 
useless to entreat: the man was born without 
a heart! Now, like a noble woman, go, and 
play your part. Forget the past. New 
friends you'll find; and may the angels guide 
your way. 

(Exit policeman.) 

(Annie gathers a shawl around her, and, 
with baby in her arms, goes out into the gatli- 
ering gloom, meets a lady who takes her 
home with her.) 

Scene 3. 
Mrs. Mvers' house. Room with three 



4 TOM HUNDLEY, 

doors; table; Mrs. Myers standing with a 
box in her hand, which she places on the 
table, takes a sponge, dips it in box, then 
looks at it. 

Mrs. M. — Yes, with this I will change her 
so completely that her villain husband will 
not know her. Justice! where is justice, 
when this man with murder in his heart is let 
loose? (Goes to the window, looks out.) 
Oh, there he goes, crouching in the shadow 
of the wall! His gun is loaded. With a 
deadly aim he means to kill his wife and baby 
boy! The fiend! He'll not succeed! I'll 
send them out to pass by him; with speed of 
engine, steam, and rail, outwit the villaiif. 

(Door opens; reveals a stairway. Annie 
looks timidly in with her baby in her arms.) 

Mrs. M. — Come, Annie, now's your time. 
Make haste, my child, no time to lose. I 
can not longer hide you here; the villain's 
free to follow you; let loose this day. With 
gun in hand, he goes in every house, de- 
mands his wife and child. In terror women 
sit, and children frightened cry. Make haste 
to fly! 'Tis the old story of the "Raven and 
the Dove." Here, I will make a raven of 
you ; for a while the color y ou may wear. 

(She takes a sponge and blacks x\nnie's 
face. Then Annie holds baby, standing on 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 35 

the table, while Mrs. Myer blacks baby's 
face.) 

(Taking colored handkerchief, she makes 
a turban on Annie's head, slips a striped skirt 
over her, puts a plaid shawl around her, slips 
big hoop earrings over her ears, puts large, 
coarse shoes on her feet, wraps baby in an 
old shawl, puts money in Annie's hand.) 

Annie. — Dear friend, how can I ever thank 
you for your more than kindness! In all my 
trouble people shunned me. They were 
afraid of the vengeance of my husband. Did 
they but sliow me kindness, he swore he 
would kill the one who gave me shelter. 
You, with fearless, noble thought, did take 
me in and hide me well. For three long days 

and nights my vigil have I kept in attic dark, 

not daring to move out into the light. My 

baby's noisy prattle did T stop, for fear 

'twould bring him to your door. 

jVXj-s. M.— (Looks out the window.) He 

comes! He comes! Go by him without fear. 

Haste to the train. I hear the whistle blow. 

(Whistle blows.) In Cincinnati you will find 

a home. Farewell, dear child. May heaven 

speed you on your way. 

(Shoves Annie out the door and closes it.) 
(Street scene. Annie outside of door, with 

her baby clasped tight in her arms. Sees Joe 



36 rOM HUNDLEY, 

Dalton coming with gun in hand. She 
makes a dash to go by him. He turns, points 
his gun at her a moment, then, with a mut- 
tered curse, goes on. 

Joe Dalton. — Only a colored girl, her baby 
in her arms. I thought 'twas her. But I 
will find her yet, and never rest until I send 
a bullet through her heart. 

(He stands looking at the trigger of his 
gun.) 

(Curtain falls leaving Joe Dalton on the 
stage. Annie hears car whistle. Goes off 
at side door.) 



ACT Y. 
Scene i. 

(House in Cincinnati.) Four stories; side 
window. Child looking out of window. On 
the street, looking up at the child, stands 
Annie Hundley. She is now twenty. Her 
little boy, a little more than five years old, is 
a prisoner in that room. 

Annie. — 1 have called and no one answers. 
I have tried the doors, and all are locked. 
My boy is in that room. 1 must have him. 
I left him, as T thought, in careful hands, while 
I did earn his bread and mine. I will have 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 37 

him! My child! My child! Not iron bolts 
or bars can keep me out! 

(Child at window calls) "Mama, mama, 
come take me out!" 

Annie. — Here is a ladder. (Finds a lad- 
der.) I will climb up to the skies, but I will 
bring my baby down. 

(She starts to climb the ladder, when a 
hand is laid on hers. Looking up, she sees 
a friend indeed — Colonel Devoe. Annie 
clasps her hands and looks at him, then ap- 
pealingly at the window.") 

Col. Devoe. — Annie (he takes both her 
hands and holds them tightly), I have foimd 
you at last, and I will not let you go. Annie, 
what does all this mean? 

Annie. — It means my child's a prisoner in 
chat house, but get him down, and I will an- 
swer you. 

(Child beats on the window and calls fran- 
tically) "Mama, mama, come take me out." 

(Springing lightly up the ladder, Colonel 
Devoe with his fist knocks the window in, 
and with the little boy in his arms, the child's 
iiaxen curls resting on his shoulders, takes 
him down and gently places him in Annie's 
arms, then takes them both in his arms.) 

Col. Devoe. — Once more we meet, dear 
love! I've heard it all. You'll not repeat 



38 TOM HUNDLEY, 

the story of your flight. The vihain's dead 
who made your Hfe a bhght, and turned your 
sunshine into darkest night. 

Annie. — Is he dead? Joe DaUon dead? 
(J)h, tell me, am I free! The chains that 
bound me in a hateful bondage, are they 
l>roken, too? 

Col. Devoc. — Be still, my love. L.et not 
the memories of the past intrude. Tis past; 
he's dead. He followed you with murder in 
his heart. He found that you had fled, and 
followed on your way. To rest, he threw 
himself across the track, regardless of a com- 
ing train. He slept, nor did he wake in time, 
ril say no more. You're free; you're mine! 

(Annie stands with her boy holding her 
right hand in both of his, her left hand im- 
prisoned by Colonel Devoe.) 

Ihe End. 



To the Public: 

This drama portrays the true life of a little 
girl who followed her father into the battle 
fields of the civil war of 1861. Her home de- 
stroyed, her mother dead, she bravely beat 
her drum in many a hard-fought, bloody bat- 
tle. 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 39 

Her father died from injuries received in 
the war. Broken in heahh, he was taken to 
a pubhc institution, and died there in want. 

His httle girl, left at the age of thirteen, 
was married to the man of her fathers selec- 
tion. Ihis marriage proved a very unhappy 
one for her. The man was killed at a rail- 
road crossing by a train of cais. She was 
again free. 

Often she thought of the kind words of 
General Grant, and wished to remind him of 
his promise, by sounding once more those 
"bugle notes/' but she had no opportunity of 
seeing him. She was in a far-ofif town, with- 
out means to accomplish her purpose. Gen- 
eral Grant passed away to the soldier's rest. 
She still lives to remember the promise he 
made and the secret that he kept. 

If any one doubts this, let them write to 
the original little drummer boy, "Tom Hund- 
ley," Oakland. Alameda County, California, 
and they can have corroboration of all these 

facts. 

Poor Tom, with all his love for his country, 
his adoration for his great general, and his 
heroism, is still battling with fate. 

He can still sound the bugle notes as of 
yore. 

May the spirit of General Grant breathe on 



40 TOM HUNDLEY, 

these leaves, fragrant with the hfe of the 
brave Httle girl who met her destiny like a 
hero. Yours ever, and 

Our Country Forever, 

Tom Hundley. 

The object in writing this history of my 
eventful life is not a selfish one. I wish to 
give all my time and means to build a home 
for children who are left as my boy was; to 
spend all my future life in building it up and 
giving shelter to the friendless ones who are 
not orphans in the eyes of the law, but are 
left helpless, drifting with the tide, into whirl- 
pools of vice and wretchedness, with no home 
or friends. Poor little waifs! God bless and 
save them. Who will help me? I will 
search the darkest corners of the streets and 
alleyways, and bring into the iiome boys 
and girls who have mothers left struggling 
against too great odds to keep their little 
ones. I will care for the children and try to 
help the mothers get work: if the fathers are 
sick, to help them; if the fathers are drunk- 
ards, to protect the children, giving them 
shelter and instruction to make them good 
men and women. My whole heart is in tlfis 
*vork. I shall sell my little book, take the 
proceeds, and dedicate it to this purpose. 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 41 

When a kind public will read my life's his- 
tory, they v/ill understand why I am so in- 
terested. I was left an orphan by the death 
of my fatlier. He died from the result of his 
sickness contracted in the army, leaving- me 
to the care of the man I married, a child of 
only thirteen years. 

One year later I found I was the child wife 
of a drunken brute. A beautiful baby was 
born — a little boy. Among strangers, too 
young to know what my rights were, I felt 
very unhappy. Things grew worse. I had 
to go out begging work. When I did not 
bring home money he would beat me cruelly. 
He compelled me to supply him with whisky. 
In terror, I have taken my baby in my arms, 
hiding in the shrubbery in the cold rain and 
sleet, afraid to go in the house. One day 
when my little boy was one year old, my hus- 
band came home, demanded my wages, to 
satisfy his craving for drink. I refused. He 
deliberately sharpened his razor, held my 
head back, and was proceeding to cut my 
throat, when my frantic screams brought the 
policeman, who rescued me from his fur}', 
took him oil to jail, then advised me to flee 
to some place where he could not find me. 
Trembling with fright, my baby clasped in 
my arms, I rushed across the street and found 
shelter in the house of Mrs. Myers, a kind 



42 TOM HUNDLEY, 

neighbor, wlio hid me in her garret. Three 
days later he came with a gun, looking for 
nie. lie looked in every house, vowing ven- 
geance, declaring he would kill both baby and 
me. Imagine my terror, trying to keep my 
baby quiet so that his noisy prattle would not 
betray my hiding-place. 

Mrs. Myers, afraid that he would kill her 
as well, procured some blacking, and with 
this disguised both baby and me. She also 
kindly furnished a little money. With this I 
ventured out, passed my irate husband by; 
but my change of color so disguised me that 
he did not recognize me. I took the train 
for Cincinnati. I worked hard to make ex- 
penses and keep my darling baby, sometimes 
leaving him to the care of others. Often my 
boy was treated harshly, locked up all day by 
himself, and starved. 1 would work all day 
and wet my pillow with my tears. I would 
pray for help, and wonder why a kind provi- 
dence would leave me to sufler when I was 
doing all I could. 1 know that if we trust our 
all to God He will help us. I feel that I suf- 
fered to make me realize the great work 
needed to rescue others ; but for this bitter ex- 
perience I would not be willing to give my all 
to help the unfortunate; I would not be will- 
ing to make ceaseless eftorts to build this 
home. I hope that others may follow, and 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 43 

that thousands more will spring up with open 
doors to take in all children who need protec- 
tion. Orphan asylums refuse those who are 
not orphans; the children must suffer for the 
faults or misfortunes of their parents. This 
home will be open to all! When I think of 
the time that I, a child wife, afraid that 1 
might return to find my baby dead, killed by 
a savage w^ho called himself a man, sent to 
the tavern to buy whisky with my own 
hard-earned wages, or pay the penalty— a 
cruel beating— if I refused! The men at the 
tavern pitied me; they treated me with re- 
spect; it was my own husband who waited to 
snatch the liquor from my hands without even 
noticing my dress frozen stif!' with ice and 
snow! Oh! those days of cruel torture! 

One day he sat on a railroad crossing; the 
train that came whirling by freed me from the 
cruel bondage. 

I worked some years, saving up my little 
earnings, and bought a little home; my son 
was growing every year and helped me. I 
met with many misfortunes; finally I drifted 
to California. In Oakland I bought a home, 
and cared for little ones who had mothers to 
love them, but were too poor to provide. I 
would take the little ones and keep them, to 
let the mothers go out to work. Oh! what a 
great good I may do! 



44 TOM HUNDLEY. 

The returns from my book, and any and 
all money, large or small, that may be sent to 
me for this purpose, will be gratefully re- 
ceived and applied to this home for friendless 
children. All who kindly respond will be 
given ample proof of the honesty and sincer- 
ity of all concerned. 

Hoping to meet with sympathy, and to re- 
ceive some help from those who love little 
children, I am, most truly. 

Your obedient servant, 

ANNIE HUNDLEY. 
(Tom Hundley.) 
Oakland, Alameda Co., Cal. 

This is to certify that Mrs. Annie Hundley 
is well known and held in highest estimation 
in this community, especially by the Educa- 
tional Department, she having letters of high 
commendation from some of the oldest teach- 
ers in the department, substantiating her 
record for kindness, capability, etc., etc., for 
giving careful and practical training and a 
home to friendless children. 

ANNIE HUNDLEY GLUD. 

Subscribed and sworn to before me this 
nth day of November, 1899. 

F. C. WATSON, 

(Seal) Notary Public. 

LofC. 




I iRRARY OF CONGRESS | 

015 973 307 5 #1 



